


How Nana Came 2 B (to be) at 221B

by sadistically_sweet



Series: The Adventures of 'Little' Sherlock and 'Daddy' John. [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Daddy Kink, Diapers, Hand Feeding, M/M, Nonsexual Ageplay, Sherlock is a poor poor baby, gratuitous cuddling, mentions of spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 13:12:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadistically_sweet/pseuds/sadistically_sweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how Sherlock got his Nana, and John realizes that Mrs. Hudson has seen and heard plenty in her day. #unfazable</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Two men climbed the stairs of 221B under the cover of early morning darkness, their steps heavy and slow, shoulders sagging; made weary by the past eight hours spent in the hospital, as well as the preceding events that sent them there.

The taller figure climbed first, one long arm clutching the banister as if it were his anchour to the ground, while his other hand was affixed to the side of his face; every step was punctuated with a loud moan, followed by a light _‘Sh!’_ from the second, smaller figure.

The second figure followed the first closely, only a small step behind; in fact, it was _he_ that held the former upright, not the banister, with both hands grasping his midsection firmly…a heavy-looking plastic bag hung from one of them, swinging back and forth with each lurching step.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson finally made the trek up to their flat, and the very first action the detective took was to immediately flop down onto the couch and lay his head back, still moaning. After setting the bag down and removing his own jacket (which seemed to weigh so much more than it had this morning), both Johns’ ‘doctor’ and ‘daddy’ instincts took over and he sat in the floor at Sherlock’s feet, where he began to remove the mans’ shoes and socks. “How you feelin’ now, love?” he sighed, ignoring the supreme exhaustion that was creeping along his bones.

Sherlock sat up and looked down at him, his head lolling slightly; the normally sharp, clear look in his eyes was now foggy and muted from the pain meds he’d been pumped full of at the A&E…and he was still clutching his jaw. For that matter, John couldn’t recall a single instant, from the time they arrived until now, that he hadn't been holding it. “Th’till hurt’th,” the detective mumble-lisped, massaging it with his fingers.

John ‘tsk’ed, removing the last sock and hefting himself up off the floor; he then took Sherlock’s hands and helped him stand up so he could peel that giant blasted coat off of his slender frame. “Yeah…a broken jaw takes a little while to heal, lad,” he sighed, then worked to get him out of the rest of his grimy, sweat-soaked clothing. “Just be glad they didn’t have to wire it shut.”

Sherlock, who’d been holding onto Johns’ shoulder while he watched John fumble with his buttons, looked back up at him suddenly, his eyes growing wide; the doctor felt the large hand grasping him tense up, and he glanced at Sherlock…just in time to see his eyes glass over before bursting into tears. The little detective let go of him in the effort to press both hands over the side of his face, with cries of “N-no, no th’ut, ‘a-addy!” and “ _P’eathe_ , n-no!”

 _‘Aw, **shit** ,'_ John winced…he was tired, too tired, and hadn’t thought that out very well. Cupping Sherlock’s’ uninjured cheek with one hand, he combed his fingers through mussed curls with the other in an attempt to soothe. “No…no baby, listen!...Daddy said they _weren’t_ …were _not_ …going to do that, okay? Shhh, no wires, I promise…just medicine and soft food for a while, that’s all!” he explained gently, trying to keep his own frayed nerves under control…but _oh_ , when he’d seen that, that _motherfucker_ swing at Sherlock— _ **his baby**_ —with a brick clutched in his closed fist…

It had taken Greg, plus two other men, to pull John off the guy and save the bastard from being stomped into nothing but a greasy spot on the pavement.

Frankly, Sherlock was lucky to get away with a hairline fracture along his lower mandible, a few loose molars, and some slight abrasions and bruising where the edge of the brick had connected. But, even though they’d avoided surgery and all that unpleasant business with metal plates and wire, the detective was in for a rough time…John knew that hairline fractures could hurt just as bad (if not worse) as a clean break, and until those teeth firmed back up on their own, Sherlock was going to _have_ to take it easy; no more heavy hits to the face.

This, really, shouldn’t have to be such a concern…but this is Sherlock, after all.

Sherlock gave a hitching little sob and blinked at him, tears still clinging to his lashes. “M-medith’ine?” he asked softly, reaching up to scrub at his eyes.

John caught his hand before he could, though…he didn’t want him putting too much pressure anywhere near that area, let alone rub his eyes sore. _‘Jesus,’_ he thought as he wiped Sherlock’s’ face with his sleeve. _‘Whatever they gave him...strong, **strong** stuff!’_

Strong enough to knock him straight into ‘little’ headspace, at least…the poor bloke had been fighting it since they’d left the hospital, after nearly calling John ‘Daddy’ at one point, but managed to pass it off as incoherent mumbling—one benefit from having a broken jaw.

But even without the meds, the normally stalwart detective was one of those that, when in pain, sick, or extremely tired…tended to regress almost automatically.

“Medicine,” John repeated, kissing the hand that he still held and then moving to unfasten his boys’ trousers, leaving him in just his pants for now. “C’mon, monkey…lets get you all set up and comfy in bed,” he said warmly, trying to get the little detective to follow him into their shared bedroom (formerly known as Johns' room).

Sherlock looked at him curiously before taking a tentative, wobbly step and then looked down at his feet, as if he couldn’t quite understand why they weren’t totally cooperating with his wishes anymore…he looked back up at John, eyes still wide and unsure, and reached for him.

John knew he shouldn’t, but he did…he had to smile and chuckle. He really, _really_ shouldn’t take advantage of the poor lad in his vulnerable state, but dammit…that was really fuckin’ cute.

The doctor held out his hands, palms up, and made the ‘Come Here’ motion with his fingers—“That’s it; come along to Daddy!”

Sherlock began to lift his foot again but hesitated, a strange look flashing across his face, and John worried that the medication was already starting to wear off…but no; the little detective took another shaky step and put his finger to his mouth, then caught Johns’ eye again and smiled as much as his injury would allow.

 _‘Cute little bugger knows what he’s doing,’_ John chuckled, waiting patiently as Sherlock toddled his way over into his Daddy’s arms.

The doctor wrapped an arm around his waist and kissed the uninjured cheek. “Good boy!” he praised, walking him into the bedroom and making him sit at the foot of the mattress. “Let’s get you all nappied up…a bath will just have to wait until morning,” he said, gently pushing on Sherlock’s shoulder to make him lie back, leaving his legs dangling over the end of the bed.

Now, it wasn’t very often that John decided to put him in nappies without Sherlock’s clear say-so, but taking into account his current physical _and_ mental state…well, it didn’t seem like such a bad idea at present.

Dark blue cotton pants were whisked down and over his feet and then flung into the corner of the room while the little detective followed their airbourne path, giving a soft giggle. John stood over him and smiled; “Was that funny, hm?” he asked playfully, reaching down to give Sherlock’s tummy an easy tickle and then laughed when he curled up on himself and squealed in protest. “Okay, okay,” he relented, still chuckling. He stopped tickling, but left his hand laying there to keep him from squirming right off the bed. “Lay still for Da’, please…”

Though, he really didn’t need to say it…Sherlock was actually a very cooperative little thing during his changes. There had only been one instance before when John had had to swat the back of his thigh to keep him from kicking, and that one had been more of an ‘attention-getter’ than anything. Even so, the detective had been ‘young’ enough that day that the very action had broken his little heart and he’d burst into tears straightaway, making John feel like a grumpy old arsehole—he was still learning to differentiate between when Sherlock needed/wanted a spanking, and when he just needed to be coddled and loved on.

And anyway, he’d felt so terrible about that miscalculation, that he’d spent the rest of the day cuddling him and spoiling him with treats.

John sighed at the memory; what could he do? The man had his heart, completely and unequivocally.

Sherlock was calm and still now, though, and was watching him curiously as he pulled their box of nappy supplies out from under the bed; since he was coming straight out of underwear, the little detective didn’t need to be washed down…all John had to do was open and lay out one of the ‘Bambinos’ (John thought the name asinine and refused to say it, but had to admit that they were _awfully_ cute…especially when they made Sherlock waddle) and slide it under his hips, then sprinkle a little powder and tape it closed snugly.

Sherlock observed all of this calmly enough, normally fascinated with the movement of Johns’ hands as they performed such a simplistic, yet intimate ritual. But now, the meds were beginning to perform their duty and make the detective increasingly drowsy; when he attempted his normal ‘sleepy-time’ habit of sucking his thumb, it only took once for the pressure to pull on his loose teeth, making him gasp sharply and jerk his hand away from his mouth. He gaped at his wet thumb, which was still stuck out in the prime ‘sucking’ gesture…and if it hadn’t been for the fact that his eyes were once again flooding from the pain and unfairness of it all, it would have been quite comical.

 _“Oww, ow-ow-owwuh-owwww!”_ he sobbed, his belly heaving from the effort.

John’s head shot up at the gut-wrenching sounds of distress, and his heart sank when he realized the problem. _‘Damn!’_ he thought, quickly shedding his clothes down to his boxers and climbing into bed with him. Reaching down, he grasped Sherlock under the arms and smoothly pulled him up to lie on top of him, the rest of the man’s long torso stretched out between the doctor’s spread legs. “Oh, lad…did you hurt your mouth?” he said sympathetically while patting his back in an attempt to soothe him. “What if we got one of your dum—well, no, that’ll pull on it, too… _shit_ ,” he said, making sure to mutter the last part under his breath.

After several minutes of pondering for a solution and finding none, John sighed…what he wouldn’t give for an ice pack right now; _hell_ , he’d settle for enough ice to quick-rig a rag into one! But, the ice maker in their freezer had been without a working motor for weeks now (thanks to Sherlock and his sequestering it for who-knows-what-reason), and John was pretty certain that neither of them had thought to fill the old ice trays that morning…

“Sorry, love, but Daddy can’t give you any more medicine tonight…not after what the doctor gave you.”

Sherlock was listening intently, watching John from his resting place, sniffling quietly…but when his Daddy gave him the bad news, the tears began flowing again in earnest—he cried silently; his mouth open while he buried his face into the crook of John’s arm as his shoulders began to shake. Long, lean legs began to kick and push back on the blankets while he wriggled, trying to find any kind of relief, his nappy crinkling with each movement.

The doctor felt hot tears splashing against his bare skin, and sighed as he wrapped his arms around the trembling form—it was _killing_ him, seeing Sherlock in such pain and not being able to do a damn thing about it…he was a _doctor_ , for christ’sake! He should be able to _do_ something!

But all John could do at the moment was pat, rub, rock, and hum in (what he hoped) was a soothing way.

Sherlock eventually settled back down while being cradled in the crook of his arm, resting his uninjured cheek on Johns’ chest while he listened to his Daddy’s heartbeat echo and mix with the resonating hum…soon, both the meds and the trauma from the evening finally won over, and the little detective nodded off with John gently massaging his swollen jaw with his fingertips.

The doctor sighed wearily; the next couple of days were going to be the most trying of the healing process…especially come morning, when the fog of adrenaline and meds wore off and the full soreness had a chance to set in.

John yawned deeply and rubbed his own gritty-feeling eyes—it was nearly a quarter after four in the morning, and he was _exhausted_ …not just ‘exhausted’, but _exhausted_.

Very, _very_ carefully, he leaned over and switched off the bedside lamp before lying back down…he was nearly asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Sherlock stirred slightly from being jostled, and just as John cracked an eye open to check on him, he managed to catch the hand that was drifting straight towards the little detective’s mouth…John held it back and carefully placed it back at his side, using his own arms to pin it down and cuddle him at the same time.

 _‘That’s going to be the worst,’_ he thought, as experience had shown earlier…Sherlock was awfully fond of his thumb and dummies.

John lasted as long as he could (which wasn’t very long at all), watching the little detective in the dark to make sure he was more or less alright before falling into an uneasy, fitful rest…his sleep being disturbed by dreams filled with the sound of fists thudding against flesh and the muffled cracks of wet bones splintering and breaking. He unconsciously squeezed Sherlock tighter, both arms fully wrapped around his poor, beaten-up little boy.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get much worse before they can get better.

_*thudthudthudthud*_ “Nnnnngh…” _*thudthudthudthud*_ “Nnnnnngh!...”

John slowly became aware of the strange thumping noise that filled the room, and cracked his heavy, sleep-laden eyes open, blinking painfully…even though the light in the room was pale and grey (the sun still hadn’t fully risen yet), it still hurt far too much to keep them open for more than a moment; he shut them tightly and threw his arm across them, waiting until they adjusted to wakefulness again.

_*thudthudthudthud*_ “NNNNNGH! _*thudthudthudthud*_

With his eyes still shut, John automatically reached for Sherlock to pull him close and…nothing. The space next to him was empty.

He sighed; “Sherlock…get _back_ into bed!” he said briskly, sounding more irritable than he meant to…in any case, he heard another quick set of _*thud*_ ’s and felt the mattress sink down at the bottom corner.

“I said _“into”_ bed!” he snapped again and sat up this time, ready to yank Sherlock back with the promise of a sound spanking if he didn’t _stay put_ …

Until he saw the hunched figure sitting at the foot of the bed, rocking back and forth while it moaned, both hands plastered to the side of its face once more.

“Nnngh, nnngh, nnngh…” Sherlock grunted with each lean forward; however rough John’s short slumber had been, it was safe to say that the detective’s had been slightly rougher. The doctor rubbed his forehead and cursed himself…he really needed to get a better hold on his temper during such occasions.

Getting up onto his knees, John edged his way over to the pained man and knelt behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist. “Sorry,” he murmured, resting his chin on a bony shoulder and pressing his lips to the side of an overly-warm head. “What do you need, love?”

Sherlock’s eyes were pinched shut, his face pale and drawn… “I _need_ ,” he rasped, his lips barely moving, “for it to _th’top hurting_ …it won’t _th’top_ … _hurting_ , John! I even took fi'fe more of tho’the _goddamned_ pill’th and it _won’t_ … _th’top_!”

John flinched and had a moment of panic when he thought of Sherlock downing that many pills without his knowledge, but realistically…he knew well-enough that that amount was nowhere near what it would take to do any real damage…as well as the fact that Sherlock knew exactly how much he could handle without OD’ing.

“Jesus,” he sighed, and crawled off the bed to stand in front of the man…a man still in a nappy, yes, but obviously very much back into his adult mindset. “Here, let me see,” he said, his medical training kicking in; he hadn’t had much experience with broken jaws, per se’, but he knew a considerable amount about fractures just the same. He eased Sherlock’s hands away from the site and began his examination. “When did you take them?”

The detective finally opened his eyes and stared at him, and John was doubly sorry for losing his temper earlier…they were bloodshot, puffy, and ringed with dark circles from the lack of sleep. “Two an’ hour ‘go; three in the lath’t twen’y minute’th,” he mumbled through pursed lips while John’s fingers explored his face.

The doctor glanced over at the clock…it wasn’t even six in the morning yet; he’d barely been asleep for over an hour—which means Sherlock must have slept for a grand total of fifteen minutes, _if_ that.

And, after giving Sherlock a good glance-over, John really couldn’t blame him—the man’s jaw had swollen considerably in a short amount of time, and what had been a small bruise under his chin was now a dark bluish-purple streak all the way back to his ear. When the doctor manipulated the site above the fracture with his fingertips, one of his worries was confirmed: he could feel a large, hard knot the size of a golf ball underneath the swelling…happens with stress fractures…meaning that it wasn’t the brick itself that caused the break, but the force behind it.

Oh, boy…were they ever in for some _fun_ times coming up.

Right on cue, Sherlock jumped back as if he’d been stuck with a hot poker and glared at John, his eyes watering. “Wha' part of ‘it fucking _hurt’th_ don’t you un'erth’tan'?!?” he snarled, looking quite vicious about it, even with the lisp.

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath…well, _several_ deep breaths. He told himself that he’d deserved that; that now they were even in the snark department. “I know, I know it hurts,” he said evenly, talking himself down, as well. “I’m sorry…I won’t touch it anymore.”

Sherlock continued to glare at him; the look in his eyes telling John that he would very much like to spit venom right into the doctor’s face if he could...but then he crumbled instead, another sob escaping his raw-sounding throat as he lowered his head into his hands. “I-I-I’m th’o _tired_ , and it hurt’th th-th’o _bad_...make it _th’top_ , ‘addy…make it _th’top_!”

Oh, _how_ it broke John’s heart to hear him beg like that; how could he have ever snapped at such a poor, sweet baby??? He held Sherlock in his arms, pressing the good side of his face into his belly while petting his hair. “Shhh, Daddy’s here…sh-sh-sh, take a deep breath for me, before you make yourself ill,” he spoke gently, wishing very much to avoid dealing with a ‘little’ detective trying to throw up with a broken jaw…he shuddered at the very idea.

Sherlock, thankfully, must have wished the very same thing as well, and took several deep, shuddering breaths to stop his sobbing. He tilted his head to look up at John; the picture of pure misery…the doctor was quite at a loss of what to take care of first: the pain (well, obviously that needed to be taken care of as soon as possible), the red, swollen eyes, the purple, swollen jaw, the exhaustion, the…

_‘Okay, WOAH,’_ he stopped and told himself. _‘One thing at a time, John Hamish…take your own advice and breathe.’_

Alright, first…he cupped his hands under Sherlock’s arms and helped him stand, regretting (not for the first time, either) that he couldn’t pick him up and carry him…well, technically he _could_ , but it wasn’t an easy task, and he simply didn’t have the strength right now. Instead, John held him firmly around the waist while he used a rude finger to check his nappy…still mostly dry; just a bit damp from sweating.

One item to cross off the list.

Next, with Sherlock still firmly tucked close to his side, he walked the little detective to the loo, where he carefully wiped down his eyes, face, neck, and chest with cool water, only garnering minimal complaint as he eased around _the_ spot.

Item number two…check.

Then, since he wanted to keep him right where he could keep watch on him, John led Sherlock into the sitting room and made him a comfy ‘nest’ on the couch; he tossed all of the pillows to one side and made him recline on them (lying flat simply hurt too much) and wrapped one of his soft, oversized baby blankets around him.

Item number three…check.

After making triple-sure that the little detective was as comfortable as he could possibly be, John then gathered a few things from the bedroom…he grabbed Gladstone, Sherlock’s phone, and several dummies (they had quite the colourful collection, now); both the phone and the stuffed animal went to Sherlock, who immediately brightened when he saw his “Goggie!” and tucked it under his neck, nuzzling it. The doctor had to chuckle and give him a quick kiss on the forehead before taking the dummies, as well as the rubber nipples to his bottles, and placing them all in the freezer for later…and while he was at it, he even refilled the ice trays.

Last item on the list…check and check.

_Damn_ , but he was good when he was focused.

John wasn’t allowed much time for gloating, though…the whimpering floating in from the direction of the sitting room saw to that. He wasted no time in hurrying back and sat on the edge of the cushion, next to Sherlock’s hips. “What’dya need, love?” he asked, reaching out to brush a few stray curls from his face.

Apparently, the pacing and stomping about earlier was what had been doing him a disservice…all that activity must have kept the effects of the pills at bay. Now that he was still, it was very clear that it had caught up to him; Sherlock looked up at John, his eyelids dark and heavy-looking, and trying in vain to close over hazy, unfocused eyes. He’d tucked Gladstone between his neck and shoulder to use as a makeshift pillow, and his thumb was resting in his mouth—he must have tried suckling on it again, poor thing. John took him by the wrist and eased it away; he’d been anticipating this. “No-no, not while your mouth hurts,” he said, his voice low. “Daddy put some dummies in the freezer so they’ll be nice and cold; you can have those later.”

The little detective sniffed and gave a shaky, pitiful sigh as he tried to sit up…John put a stop to that with a firm hand on his chest. “No, baby…you tell Daddy what you need, and I’ll get it.”

Those cloudy blue eyes glassed over and for a split second, John was willing to let him get up and go wherever he wanted, just so long as he didn’t _cry_ anymore…but, he didn’t; Sherlock laid back down as he was told and swallowed thickly. John realized then that his mouth had to be horribly dry from all the crying, as well as the medication on top of it.

“Are you thirsty, is that it?” he asked, trying so very, _very_ hard to smile, stay calm, and hide how so very, _very_ tired he was; he felt he had no room to complain…not when Sherlock was ten times worse off.

Sherlock gave a tiny nod, pressing his thumb to the outside of his lips…John allowed it this time; as long as it was on the outside, it was fine. Just as he was getting up to find something for Sherlock to drink, the little detective piped up again in his softer ‘baby’ voice—“Hun’gree, ‘addy?” he asked, surprising not only John, but himself as well.

John paused, “…Do you want to try the food we picked out last night?” he asked cautiously…as much as he wished Sherlock was whole and no longer in pain, there was a _small_ silver lining—

He’d been trying to talk the detective into letting him feed him for _months_ , but Sherlock always shot it down with a level of vehemence that would make one think John had suggested a feeding tube rather than a jar of food and a spoon.

Now, though…the doctor hated to think of the situation as a golden opportunity, but…well, it was, in a way.

Sherlock gave another tentative nod, blinking up at him sleepily. Another good sign—if he could get the little guy fed and sated, maybe they could _both_ take a much-needed nap.

John found the bag he’d brought in the night before…when he’d heard the doctor mention ‘soft foods’, the light bulb had gone off over his head and he had the forethought to drag Sherlock to one of the 24-hour stores (the detective hadn’t minded so much, as long as John let him lean on him) to procure a few jars of baby food. Mostly fruits (Sherlock enjoyed sweet things), a few vegetables such as peas, carrots, and sweet potatoes (again, sticking to the sweet variations), and one meat…John had taken the opportunity to crack open one of the jars marked ‘chicken’, taken one whiff, and then gagged so violently that his eyes had watered; he bought it purely for the fact that he’d felt too guilty to put an opened jar back on the shelf for someone else to deal with.

After promptly throwing _that_ one away (it had smelt suspiciously of cat food in the first place; he was doing some poor child a favour, he reasoned) and selecting the jar of mashed bananas, he pondered how to go about quenching Sherlock’s thirst…anything that required a strong sucking-motion was out, so that meant no sippy-cups, no bottles…and hell, they didn’t even _have_ any straws!

Regardless, John solved the matter by simply holding a glass of ice water to Sherlock’s lips, along with a small, folded towel underneath his chin; it was a relatively painless process, and Sherlock drank greedily…the doctor felt more than a bit guilty for having waited this long in the first place.

Sherlock drank so quickly, in fact, that John had to make him sit up and lean against him so that the doctor could burp him with a series of rapid pats along the middle of his back. John was in slightly better spirits after that; it was so absurdly adorable…but the detective was somewhat less than thrilled by the event.

“Aw, c’mon,” he chuckled at the sullen little face pouting at him from the refuge of pillows. “Little boys who drink too fast have to be burped…you wouldn’t want a sore tummy on top of everything else, would you?”

Sherlock seemed to deliberate on that for a moment, and then shook his head ‘no’. John smiled and leaned forward to kiss the tip of his nose, “I didn’t think so.” He held up the glass so the little detective could get one more mouthful and then set it aside, picking up the jar of bananas instead. He twisted the cap and the seal broke with a loud, sucking _pop!_

As dazed as he was, Sherlock still watched with a wary eye…little did John know, the reason he was so adamant about _not_ eating baby food was because he already knew what the slop tasted like. Honestly, after all these years of knowing Sherlock’s habits, did John not think he’d _experimented_ with certain things beforehand???

“Wha’ i’th it?” he asked, not taking his gaze from John’s hand as he picked up the spoon he’d brought along and stirred the mush, then held a small amount up to Sherlock’s mouth.

“Bananas,” the doctor answered, speaking patiently. “You _like_ bananas.”

The detective stared down at the pale yellow blob quivering on the end of the spoon, causing him to go cross-eyed. “I like _whole_ banana’th.”

“…Bananas that you couldn’t chew right now, anyway,” John reminded him. “And before you say anything about using the other side of your mouth, you _must_ remember that any kind of chewing is still going to move your _entire_ lower jaw…and that won’t feel good.”

Sherlock’s face darkened; his repressed ‘adult’ side realizing that John was right, and that the doctor was getting too quick in his counter-arguments.

John quickly compromised to head off any impending tantrums, “This is just temporary, Sherlock…it’s only for a day or two, until you can open your mouth without wincing, yeah?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed heavily…then, while keeping them closed tightly, he parted his lips just enough for John to ease the spoon in.

_‘When in doubt…use logic.’_

Grinning his usual lopsided grin, John gently spooned in the small mouthful, chuckling as Sherlock grimaced horribly. “There,” he said in his best ‘Daddy’ voice, “Not so bad, eh?”

The detective gave him the driest, most acerbic ‘shut-the-fuck-up’ look John had ever seen as he worked the stuff over his tongue, trying to turn his senses away from the urge to chew; he thought back to each point in time where he’d witnessed both mother’s and father’s alike feeding older infants, focusing on how the children’s tongues had seemed to make a sort of ‘lapping’ motion, and then tried to do the same. After a moment or two of practice, Sherlock managed to use his tongue and the roof of his mouth to push the food back and swallow with minimal pain, while making small gulping sounds.

John held up another spoonful, watching the little detective with an odd fascination…it was _exactly_ like watching a baby learn to eat solid foods for the first time, and he (knowing it was silly, but was unable to help it) felt a sense of pride for his little man figuring it out.

Sherlock caught him staring and turned his gaze downcast, blushing slightly.

The doctor felt a warm-fuzzy glow settle over him (not at all dissimilar to the feeling most people get when looking at a picture of an overly-adorable, fluffy little animal) and stroked Sherlock’s cheek with the back of his finger. “Good, _good_ lad,” he murmured. “Daddy’s proud of his big boy.”

The detective met his eyes again, and John could literally _see_ the effect his words were having…the medicine was doing its fair share, yes, but Sherlock had obviously been pushing back his ‘little’ side again when the baby food first came out, and now…

Now, the little detective was going all soft and sweet again; the fact that he was pleasing his Daddy was in turn pleasing _him_. He looked from John to the spoon, and opened his mouth again.

John forgot all definition and the meaning of the word ‘exhausted’ as he sat and fed his little one, who was also getting into the spirit…Sherlock would sit and wait with an open (as far as he could without hurting himself, anyway) mouth after gulping down each bite, and even started giving him impatient little grunts when the doctor took too long for the next bite. John laughed so heartily that he had tears in his eyes…the detective never ceased to amaze him.

It was during just such a laughing fit (after John purposefully held the spoon far enough away, just to see how impatient the detective could _really_ get, when Sherlock finally reached out and grasped the doctor’s wrist, directing it into his mouth himself), that both men missed the sound of footsteps and a rattling tray coming up the stairs.

John was gathering another bite (they were only halfway through the jar, and John would be thrilled if he could finish it…but Sherlock was already starting to wind down again) and holding it up to the little detective’s waiting mouth, when there was a short knock at the door…which began to open immediately after, without waiting for the customary “Come in!”

“Goodness!” Mrs. Hudson called out, pushing the door the rest of the way open with her hip and balancing a tray of tea and breakfast pastries on the other, her back still to the abashed couple on the sofa. “Sounds as if you boys are having a party up here; as late as you trudged in, I thought you’d both be sleep…sleeping…in,” she began jovially enough; her cheerful disposition trailing off as she turned and finally took in the scene before her.

“Oh, _boys_ …”


	3. Chapter Three

Sherlock and John stared back at her, frozen…the detective with his mouth agape (as far as it could, under the circumstances) and waiting for the next spoonful that John was still holding up in front of him, his own mouth flopping open hysterically.

Mrs. Hudson was the first to break the awkward silence…”Oh, _Sherlock_!” she gasped, her face falling as she quickly put the tray aside. John shook his head and snapped back to the present, trying to stammer out an explanation. “Um, okay…you see, we’re not…er, this isn’t, uh…I mean, I’m just fee—” he stopped abruptly and sighed, closing his eyes. “It’s _not_ a sex thing,” he finished weakly.

Mrs. Hudson brushed past him and scoffed, “I saw that thing on the telly about ’15 Stone Babies’, John…I _know_ what it is!” As she reached Sherlock’s side, she put a light hand on his swollen cheek and the other on his forehead, “Oh, my poor little Sherlock; what did they do to your sweet face?!”She fussed over him, ignoring the look of utter shock that was plastered all over his aforementioned face.

John was completely thrown for a loop, his face contorting in shock and confusion. “I-er…you know what _this_ ,” he gestured to Sherlock and his little set-up with the hand that still held the spoon, “…is?”

Mrs. Hudson turned her attention away from the bruised-up detective to give John a dry look. “For heaven’sakes, the both of you! I’m _seventy_ …not ‘dead’!” she replied, a bit of bite behind her words.

John had the good sense to blush, “Well, yeah, I know…just, it’s…yeah, ‘course you’re not.”

Sherlock was equally at a loss; any other time, and he would have been able to snap out of it and be his usual composed self, and it wouldn’t have mattered a shred _who_ walked in…but being both tired and, for lack of a better term, ‘doped up’, he was still feeling heady….and very, very little. He watched Mrs. Hudson with wide, anxious eyes, and when she turned back to pet and fuss over him again, he shrank back against the pillows and clutched the corner of his blanket in a white-knuckled fist.

John immediately set the jar of food aside, ready to reassure him as much as he could. “It’s okay, lo—” he began, but was quickly cut off by none other than Mrs. Hudson. “Oh, no,” she cooed, back to her usual bright demeanour and reaching down to pat his chest.

“No, dear; it’s alright…no need to be afraid of Nana!”

Again, Sherlock was caught off guard…he looked from her to John curiously, and then back to her. “…Na-na?” he finally asked, putting his hand over hers.

Needless to say, John was taken aback, as well. “Oh, you don’t have to…!”

Mrs. Hudson moved a stack of papers out of her way and sat on the corner of the low coffee table next to the couch. "I know I certainly don’t _have_ to, John…” she said evenly, leaning forward to brush the corner of Sherlock’s mouth with her knuckles, smiling at him fondly. “But I’d _like_ to,” she continued, turning back to face the doctor now, “…if that’s okay with you.”

John was…well, ‘stunned’ is the only word that can come somewhat close to describing it. “I, uh…yeah, no! I mean, yeah, that’s perfectly fine! Would you like that, Sherlock? If you had a Nana?” he asked, rubbing his leg through the blanket.

Sherlock, bless his heart…the poor boy still looked bewildered, not being able to follow along (or lead, as usual) with the situation at his normally snapping pace. Frankly, he didn’t even know if he was dreaming this entire conversation up in a drug-addled hallucination, or if it was real; when he opened his mouth to respond, the dull ache that set his whole lower jaw to throbbing told him that yes, he was indeed still awake, and he’d just called his landlady ‘Nana’.

He closed his mouth again with a short whinge, and nodded.

Their sometimes-but-not-quite housekeeper gave a happy little laugh and clapped her hands together in delight. “Such a sweet boy, yes!...and a _tired_ boy,” she said as he leaned his head back onto Gladstone. “A tired Daddy, too,” she added when the doctor tried to discreetly stifle a yawn. “Alright, naptime for the both of you!” came the announcement as she stood and ushered John back towards his and Sherlock’s bedroom, tutting away at his weak protests. “He’ll be _fine_ , John; I’ll sit with him until you get up…now _hush_ , you’re nearly dead on your feet!"

Well, she was right…the forty-five minute nap he’d grabbed before Sherlock had woken him was really starting to wear him down, and while he _loved_ taking care of him—he wasn’t complaining, not in the least!—it was no easy task. “Yes, ma’am,” he chuckled, letting her push him around. “Just wake me up if you need anything, or if he gets fussy…he’s got dummies in the freezer if he starts begging, and…”

“Yes, yes,” she answered as she sent him off with a good-natured swat to his backside. “I’ve had both children _and_ grandchildren, John; I’m no novice…and you’ll sleep until you’re done!”

John opened his mouth to protest some more, but merely yawned loudly and gave her a nod and a wave as he climbed into bed and realized he was a fool for ever leaving it in the first place.

He could still hear Mrs. Hudson in the front room, chattering away and more than likely completely spoiling the little detective while she had the opportunity. “…still hungry, dear? Yes, Daddy’s napping, and so will Sherlock when he’s done eating…no, tuck that lip away…open for Nana, yes! Lovely boy…”

***

Before he even realized he’d fallen asleep, John was awake again, lying sprawled across the bed on his belly and drooling into his pillow. He reached up to swipe the back of his hand across his mouth and then stretched…Oh, he felt _so_ much better now! The light glaring through the window told him it was probably early afternoon, and turning to look at the actual clock told him he was correct.

John sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched again…it was then he realized that he couldn’t hear anything anymore; there were no more voices coming from the sitting room. For a brief moment, he panicked—and immediately felt ridiculous. Sherlock may be injured and out of his usual mindset, but he was still a _fully-grown_ Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson wasn’t too shabby with handling anything handed to her, either.

_‘You **have** to get over these ‘new parent’ jitters, man!’_

John stood and let his body get the customary creaking and popping out of the way before ambling back into the sitting room, where he found…

Absolutely everything still in order, and completely fine.

Sherlock was dozing on the couch, amazingly enough; he was still reclining on his pillows, and Gladstone had been traded for a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a towel (the stuffed dog was now firmly tucked under his arm) that he was now leaning his cheek on. The doctor quietly walked up to check on him, grinning at the sight…a dummy was hanging partway out of his mouth, causing him to make light snoring noises behind it; John used his thumb to ease it back between his lips before running his fingers through soft, fine curls. The little detective stirred slightly, but John had an inkling that a herd of wildebeests could stampede through the flat and hardly cause a twitch from the sleeping form.

There was a slight ticking noise behind him, and he looked over his shoulder…Mrs. Hudson was sitting in his chair next to the fireplace, her knitting needles working over and under, over and under, over and under in her hands, all while she watched the little scene between the two men with a faint smile. “Sleep well?” she whispered.

John smiled back and rubbed his hand back through his own hair. “I did, yes…thank you,” he said, his tone equally hushed, and went to sit across from her. “…How was he?”

She gave a slight nod and glanced back down at her knitting. “He was fine, of course…shy, at first, which was…different, but understandable. He’s very sweet this way, isn’t he?” she sighed, and finally put her half-finished project back in her bag.

“Well, he _is_ pretty drugged right now, though…” he chuckled. “You were visiting your sister the last time he had a good, full-blown tantrum.”

Mrs. Hudson laughed, quickly putting a hand over her mouth to muffle it. “ _Oh_ , goodness!...I can just imagine!” she giggled. “That’s precious!”

John snorted, “Sure, ‘precious’… _you_ try dragging a screaming, kicking, flailing toddler that’s got a good six inches on you over your knee—” John stopped himself and winced; “Don’t…don’t tell him I just told you that,” he said sheepishly.

Mrs. Hudson just gave him a knowing smile. “Can’t say I haven’t been tempted to fetch out my wooden spoon a time or two,” she said with a wink. Looking back over at the blanket-wrapped detective on the couch, her attitude became slightly more sobered. “He’s needed someone to take care of him for a long time …he’d never come out and admit it, but it was impossible to miss.”

John didn’t answer; he didn’t have to, they each knew what the other was thinking at that precise moment.

“...I’m so glad he found what he needed in _you_ , John.”

The doctor smiled, and told himself that if he teared-up right then, he was going to kick his own arse later. He glanced about, trying to distract himself, and his gaze eventually fell upon the coffee table, where the empty jar of baby food sat. “Are you… _sure_ , that you want to be part of it? I mean, it’s hardly a normal relationship, even without the ‘baby’ thing…”

“One can hardly give a true definition to ‘normal’, John,” she said, taking her eyes away from the snoring bundle. “Everyone needs to be loved, but you can’t honestly expect everyone to need it in the same way. Besides,” she gave a small wave of her hand to emphasis her point, “You two aren’t hurting any _thing_ or any _one_ …so why worry? Who _cares_ if he enjoys wearing nappies and being cuddled, especially when you enjoy it, too?”

And, as she caught him staring at the empty jar, she seamlessly added, “…Still not your housekeeper, dear.”

John opened his mouth to answer, but any response he could fathom paled in comparison and felt unworthy of such a simple, yet profound statement. “You…are an _amazing_ woman, Mrs. Hudson, and I am truly ashamed to have underestimated you.”

She only giggled in reply, and gathered her bag to take her leave; John stood with her to assist. “Please…it’s ‘Nana’, now,” she said, patting him on the arm. “And really, John…if he’s ever in a ‘mood’ and you need a break or what-have-you, feel free to send him down to me!”

John chuckled and followed her to the door to see her out, “You may come to regret that offer,” he teased.

She gave him a playfully indignant gasp and swatted at his shoulder, “John, _really_!...He’s an angel!”

“For _you_! You’re Nana, after all!” he replied, only half-joking. Sherlock did adore the woman, and she was marvelous at getting him to cooperate more than anyone else had ever been…and that included John. “No,” he said, turning serious now, “you’re right; he _is_ very sweet this way, even if he is throwing a wobbler…and normally, that’s only when he’s _really_ been feelin’ the stress from a case…or, _not_ having a case,” he added, casting a glance at him over his shoulder.

“I can well understand, poor thing…as long as it keeps more holes out of the wall,” and had John not turned back to catch her expression, he may have continued to think that she was joking again...

She wasn’t.

“Alright, I’ll be off and leave you to your fatherly duties…goodbye dear, and do let me know if you need anything!”

“Yes, Ma’am!” he said again, and gave her a small salute. “Bye, Mrs…Nana!”

John could hear her giggling to herself all the way downstairs to her flat, waiting until she was safely inside before shutting their door and going back to check on Sherlock again. He could see the dummy bobbing slightly, but since it didn’t seem to be bothering him at the moment, he left it alone.

After tucking the blanket back up around his narrow shoulders and placing a light kiss on his cheek, and another on the dummy itself, John meandered into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich and a cuppa…now that he wasn’t sleep-deprived, he was famished.

Sherlock waited until he heard the movements of someone who was trying to remain as silent as humanly possible coming from the kitchen before letting the good side of his mouth curl into a smirk…he hugged Gladstone to his chest and squirmed down into his fluffy lair of pillows and blankets—he supposed he could let John go ahead and finish his lunch, but afterwards…

The Game, _Nana_ , would be back on.


End file.
